


Amongst the high lights

by Floris_Oren



Category: White Collar
Genre: Con's, Even if he is fake dead, Neal is totally legit, Painting, Paris - Freeform, The Art Student con is a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:38:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5615842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Floris_Oren/pseuds/Floris_Oren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While dead, and in Paris, Neal can't help himself from conning some con's to play an elaborate game of "Find the Neal".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amongst the high lights

**Author's Note:**

> The Art Student Con, from the wiki article, is mostly done in China. A bunch of Chinese students will find a tourist and start talking English with them under the guise of practicing the language. They'll talk about education and then turn it to their profession and that they have a gallery opening or whatever, inviting the tourist to come. Once the tourist is there, they'll try and sell the coppies. Mostly imprints from the internet, at a high price. The tourist goes home with a bunch of knock offs and the "students" get some spare cash. 
> 
> It's a thing you guys. 
> 
> I also hate coming up with my own cons. It's so hard. I rather research one do write that one up. I kinda changed it but I wanted to give details because I don't want anyone to fall for it. I almost fell for the Boiler Room con, almost. If I hadn't watched Leverage I probably wouldn't have known better.

Six am of a Friday, in a small lane mostly made up of private homes but boasting a very nice, out of the way eatery that boasts home made breads and soup. The win is of good quality, in home made and Neal loves how cozy it is. After faking his death and leaving New York, Paris is the closest place he can call home. He looks down at his leg, every so often he catches himself doing it. The black box is gone, no one looks at him funny if they notice it and he doesn't have to tell anyone he has a heart condition. 

He's off the radar; so to speak. And no one from his old life is going to find him unless and until he sends that bottle. But the Pink Panthers are still a problem and until they're taken care of for good Neal cannot risk it. He goes by name Joel Strong. It's a new one and not even Mozzie got it for him. 

Neal wished he could have taken Mozz, at least then he'd have someone here to share Paris with; but he didn't and that is that. Even Peter and El have a Little Neil to be busy with and even if he wanted too; they won't know until it's safe and he'll be long gone from Paris. 

So. Here he is. Enjoying a light, white wine with soup and bread, watching Paris come alive at night little by little as the sun fades away to another part of the world. Alone. 

Contrary to popular belief, he's fine with this. Sure, he misses his friends. His made-family. But, he prepared for that. And he makes due. He works out of a local, not at all known college as an Art Professor from America who likes fine things and "pretends" to know what the Master's were up to when they did their famous works. Most of the students he taught thought he was full of shit. Neal just glowered in a Professor-ley manner at them and marked their papers down and basically called them out on all of their bullshit. 

And that is when Tevor Giles came onto the scene; the worst Student by far his parents were paying for his education in Paris. He wanted an out of the way school and not the university because he said "they don't teach anything I want to know..." and somehow his parents bought his whole "I'm a serious art student" schtick. When he tried to sketch, Because Neal let them "copy" the masters in class to demonstrate a thing or two, the kid proved to be absolutely useless. His talent was not in drawing, not even stick figures. 

Neal wrote him off and continued onto students who actually had some talent. He tutored them in his free time after class, all above bored. He was never found alone in a room and he always turned down the female students offers of dinner after. The door was always open and he was usually a few feet from them. He would have them hand their sketch books over so no one would see him bending over a student. 

He was considered paranoid. 

Still. Giles had some balls to follow him from the last class of the day to this little, out of the way place Neal thought to be his. Neal left his musings of the sun light rays on the wall and how it could be a very nice impression idea for one of his canvases with a frown. 

"Giles." he said, in French. 

"Yes. I've never seen you here." the boy replied. He's twenty, an easy ten or so years younger than NEAL, and he sussing the Professor out. Neal can read it in his eyes. This kid is looking to make a fast buck. Parent's probably didn't like Neal's grade on the kid's last paper. 

"We probably come at all the wrong times." Neal replied easily, giving the idea off that he didn't like being interupted but that he could be dissuaded from anger for any good reason. 

"I've come with my friends..." Giles turned to indicate two women and a man, all were younger, about Giles' age. 

"Oh?" Neal asked, "and what can a Professor do that you four can't with your big brains?" he teased. Giles took the barb for what it was and shrugged easily. 

"We have a gallery opening this afternoon, we're hear to drown out sorrows before we go to see what the Critics say." he explained. 

Neal almost snorted his derision but kept that in check; "Oh? I didn't know someone had picked you up as an artist." 

"Minimalist is still in style, and besides I've been practicing. Newly developing art skills is a thing these days." Giles said. 

Neal nodded, he'd pulled that one a time or two only his style was the beginnings of Van Goh. "Well, at least someone appreciates it." 

It isn't a secret between them that Neal thinks Giles is full of shit and shouldn't be an art student at all. He wants the attention, but doesn't want to do even half the work. To a Con artist who made most of his life decisions on deciding what piece to fake next, well, that was an insult. 

"Why don't you come along, you'll probably like what my friends do." he said. Said friends were waving and drinking wine and waiting for their orders. 

Neal thought about telling him "no" in terms that could be clearly understood. But, that twinge inside him that told him this would be a pretty nice con, held his words. Then he nodded. 

"Where is it?" 

Giles and he solidified the details and then Giles returned to his friends while Neal paid and left for his apartment. They wouldn't meet up at the gallery for a couple of hours. That was really all the time Neal needed. He passed his flat for the gallery address Giles had given him. It was in a quiet, not at all well kept, part of Paris. It lost its glamour down here, was a bit dingy and questionable. Still, Neal wasn't molested and went on his way without anyone the wiser. 

He picked the lock on the door, it was so easy he almost wept for the lack of challenge in it. Inside, they had set up an "art" gallery of sorts. Mostly prints from the internet that'd been put on canvas instead like a family would their family photo when at a camera shop to have something that looked more hand painted. It's not the same as if Grandma had done it, but it held the same idea. 

Neal sighed, that is, until he saw the fake of a John Michael. 

His thoughts flashed to a glass enclosed office, many, many years ago. Peter is at his desk, File lie around them and Neal is flipping through a book on Art through the Ages. The book their suspect worshipped. 

"Have you ever heard of a John Michael?" Peter had asked. 

Neal hid a smirk behind the book, then schooled his features. "No. why?" 

"No reason." Peter shrugged. 

Blinking the memory away; Neal slipped out of the gallery and made it back to his flat in time to change and come up with a game plan. He'd have to leave Paris sooner than he wanted but after the heat died down maybe he'd be back. Maybe. 

~*~

Giles looked so pleased with himself when Neal talked up the faked John Michael. They had told Neal that none of them had done it, that a friend of theirs had and he could buy it off them. But Neal upped the price by a lot and said, sadly, that he couldn't afford it but if they take it to a museum they'd probably get a lot for it. The students had eaten up his words. It was too easy. He didn't feel bad, they were young and had plenty of time to learn and they hadn't forged any bonds. So. Neal dallied off without the fake of his own style and waited for the other shoe to drop. 

~*~

Peter had forgotten all about dropping the name on Neal until the file was put onto his desk. Little Neil is playing in the play pen set up in his office, it's take your kid to work day because the wife had a sudden emergency so no field work for Agent Burke today. The kid is chewing on a teddy bear, name Mozart, and happily cooing to himself. 

Some kids in Paris had tried to hawk a John Michael fake. The one of the black birds on a rail fence with cows in the distance and something like the New York skyline in the far, far distance. The original hangs in Peter's office. A gift from Neal. Papers to prove it. 

Still. 

Peter takes a mirror. Approaches the heavily, wood, carved frame, aims it. 

"Paris." is where Neal's initial's should be. 

Peter smiles. 

~*~

When he finally gets to Paris, after getting the bottle of wine, finding the shipping container just because it was part of the game. He finds the flat of the Professor empty. Except, there's a frame on the wall, with a new painting, done my John Michael to a friend hanging on the wall over the queen sized bed. 

In it are figures walking down an out of the way Paris Street; two are a couple with a red umbrella, the woman is pushing a baby stroller. There's a bald man with spy gear facing away from the couple. Hiding behind a bush no less. A black man looking grim but there's no missing Jones. An older Black woman with a pug doing some shopping and a woman with a toddler. Dian. 

And, if one didn't look closely, they wouldn't see the man hiding in plain sight. He wore a fedora low over his eyes and there's a smirk there, the sort that challenges the viewer to a game of cat and mouse. 

Peter takes the painting down. It'll look great in their dining room. 

And he couldn't help but admire the way the fading sun light hit the brick walls of an out of the place eatery even with all the people going about their business amidst high lights of red, gold and light pink.


End file.
